


A Flock of Dwarves

by Moonreefe



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, california set on fire so this is taking longer than expected im so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 04:16:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16548722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonreefe/pseuds/Moonreefe
Summary: "Dwarven tents on the road to Bree?" Bilbo shook his head, "But...heavens, why? There are plenty of dwarven smiths in Bree, why camp outside?"Hamfast shakes his head, "Not craftsmen, you see, they say they've been 'imploring the townspeople for aid', you see, for a big quest."Bilbo taps his chin in thought, and Hamfast clicks tongue. "Now, now, don't go thinking of feeding the crows here, Mister Baggins. You know you'll bring a flock of dwarves upon us."Well, Bilbo had always loved to feed the crows, after all.





	A Flock of Dwarves

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed! If you're interested in betaing let me know!  
> All credit to all the good ole copyright holders.

There’s a point in every journey where you wonder if it’s too late to turn back. Bilbo brushes a piece of lint off of his shirt as his eyes scan the sight in front of him. Several large tents are arranged along the road to Bree. They aren’t scruffy, dirty old tents, but they’re not in the best shape either. They form a half circle, two hobbits length from the road. When Hamfast had mentioned the Dwarven camp near Bree, Bilbo had thought it would be more of a shanty town. Dwarves weren’t known for being nomadic, after all, and one could hardly blame Bilbo for imagining something less…

Well. What’s in front of him looks like a mini kingdom of tents, perhaps what one would see in an illustration of a war. One large open-mouth tent with a table set inside, several with doors shut or hanging half way over the mouth of the tent. There doesn’t seem to be many Dwarves, and the ones that are around seem incredibly focused on the task at hand. Which, as far as Bilbo can tell, is pretending to be mighty busy. He’s been here a moment or so and he hasn’t seen them do much of anything, but they’re still bustling around busily.

Right, the task at hand. Hamfast Gamgee had mentioned that there were Dwarves camping near Bree, and that they were...what was a polite word for begging? Indeed what they were doing was asking for aid. They seemed to need materials and funds for a quest of theirs. Bilbo hadn’t quite heard the whole of it. Bilbo had things left behind by his parents when they passed, and since he was past his prime...well, there wouldn’t be tiny feet in Bag End until he was gone. Nor normal hobbit feet, for that matter. He had blankets and pillows and other such useful things tucked into corners he never visited. It seemed a right fit.

He’d also brought large quantities of food, freshly prepared. If Dwarves were anything like Hobbits, he’d have many a Dwarf happy to partake, after all.

Yet as he stared out at the tents, shuffling large bare feet awkwardly, he could hardly pull his wheelbarrow forward. It was simply intimidating, for he knew nothing of Dwarven customs. Was there a different greeting? Would he somehow offend them? What if the sight of bare feet disgusted them? He had no way of knowing, and so he was nearly glued to his spot.

One of the Dwarves, with wiry grey hair and a beard like a cloud, seems to tire of his hesitance. “Well go on then,” he calls out from a small bench, in a thick accent, “If you’re on your way to Bree, we aren’t about to stop you.” He runs a hand down his beard and tokes a pipe, seeming to almost scan Bilbo from head to toe.

With that, Bilbo can no longer stand in place. Seeing as everyone else is doing their best to pretend like he doesn’t exist, he approaches the Dwarf that spoke to him. He clears his throat a good two feet from the Dwarf and shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I heard, well, I...I brought...this is for you.” He motions to the cart, flushing in his inability to articulate. The dwarf strokes his beard for a moment and then calls out in a different language. Bilbo winces at the assault on his ears, but otherwise stays put. The act they had put on, bustling about busily to do nothing at all was broken. They all crowded on around him, and his ears began to burn at the scrutiny.

All the dwarves were well taller than him, some by more than others, and it felt like someone had erected a solid dwarven wall around him. Another voice calls out in what must be the dwarven tongue, and they all take a few steps back. Bilbo almost groans when yet another dwarf, this one even taller than the rest, in beautiful black robes with long flowing hair, steps out of the largest tent. He looked quite sharp, stately even.

Bilbo feels himself tense when the large dwarf approaches him, feeling almost intimidated by the fellow. He watches calculating eyes watch him, and he’s ready to turn tail and bolt when finally he speaks.

“Evening, grocer. At what price comes your wares?” The words come with a softer accent than the dwarf before him, and Bilbo shivers at the deep voice.

“I see there’s been a misunderstanding, er, I am no grocer. If I am not mistaken, a group of dwarves near Bree were asking for supplies for a...quest of some sort? Perhaps I am terribly mistaken and turned around, so if this is the wrong place I will take my leave, very sorry. Terribly sorry.” He tried his damnedest to tip toe off in full view of the entire group. It goes as well as expected.

He turns around and smacks straight into what must be a mobile mountain, as wide and tall as any Bilbo has ever seen. He looks up and squeaks at the face looking down at him. “Sorry lad, don’t often get missed by the eyes I dare say.”

The tall dwarf at the head clears his throat. “You...you bring supplies for our quest?” Bilbo turns back to him, happy for anything to take away the mortification of body slamming the large dwarf. “So this is the right place, then? Er...I’ve no idea what is needed for a quest, so not everything will probably be useful, but I’ve brought food along also. If nothing else perhaps that will...fill your needs.” There’s a pause. It’s a bit stiff, and it makes Bilbo look around for a moment. It seems that all eyes are on the dwarf at the head of the group, still standing regally. He inclines his head slightly, “Whom should I thank for such a selfless act?”

Bilbo swallows. “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, at your service.” It feels, somehow, like a great admission of some sort.

Moments later his cart is set on by a pack of wild dogs. At least it would seem that way. The dwarves surround it within seconds and every trace of food is on a makeshift wooden table in moments. Bilbo blinks and smiles. Well, at least in this Hobbits and Dwarves didn’t seem so different. Bilbo recalls a very similar reaction when he brought food to the gathering on one of the holidays the thain had made up to appease those calling for a feast.

“Will you join us, Mister Baggins?” A voice inquires. Realizing that his attention had been on the dwarves surrounding the makeshift table, Bilbo’s head snaps back to the lead dwarf.

“Oh, no it wouldn’t do to intrude. I trust I can leave this cart in your hands, Master Dwarf?” He tries his best not to fidget under an intense blue gaze.

The dwarf steps forward, a bit further into his space than most hobbits would in a one on one conversation, and Bilbo chalks it up to cultural difference.

“I insist, Mister Baggins. If not to eat, then at least stay to chat,” he requests in a firm tone, “I’d quite like to get to know you. Not many would...not many _did_ lend their aid.”

Suddenly Bilbo has a small epiphany. The dwarf that had urged him to continue to Bree, the skepticism the dwarf in front of him immediately had when Bilbo told him the wagon’s contents were for them.

Well, the Shire didn’t deal well with outsiders. The rest of the world likely wasn’t much different. Here, in their tents on the side of the road, they were outcasts. He remembered a story his mother used to tell him about a duck, whom all the other ducks hated because he was nothing like them. At the time he’d thought it had been about his mother, primarily, for everyone made such a fuss about her adventures.

Right now, in the eyes of the dwarf in front of him, he saw scruffy grey feathers and an oddly shaped beak.

“If you insist, Master Dwarf,” he smiles as pleasantly as he can, which probably isn’t that pleasant at all. He hasn’t had a reason to truly smile in quite some time, after all.

The dwarf’s smile looks as forced as Bilbo’s feels. Perhaps he hasn’t had reason to smile in some time either. “Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror,” he introduces himself, and then he seems to not know what to do with himself.

Bilbo holds out a hand and, hesitantly so, Thorin takes it and wiggles it a bit.

One of the Dwarves, the lanky brunet one, yells out, “Uncle, why are you holding his hand?” At that, the handshake ends rather abruptly, and Thorin shoots a glare over at the younger Dwarf.

Possibly two hours later, maybe more, and Bilbo no longer awkwardly lingers at the foot of the table as Thorin attempts to make (quite pitiful) conversation with him. It seemed for all his state-lyness, Thorin was quite sociably untried, at least in the way of respectable small talk, and Bilbo pitied the poor dwarf. It was for this reason he allowed the awkward conversation to continue, as dreadful and, well, awkward as it was!

But everyone had their limits, and before long Bilbo was at his. “So!” He interjects after another awkward attempt at a conversation (“You’re a good cook. Is your family full of...cooks?” and such by one Thorin.)

Bilbo isn’t expecting a hush to fall over the loud and rowdy dwarves, even if he did yell at them for their attention. He gulps momently before smiling, “What’s this quest for? No one’s told me anything of it.”

Several silent moments of dodgy eye contact and hand waving between the dwarves before Thorin clears his throat. “We ride to Erebor, our lost home, to reclaim it from a great beast.” “A dragon. A great beast with wings that block out the sun and a belly containing fire hotter than a forge.” The dwarf he’d only recently come to know as Bofur, reminisces.

A solemn air wraps its way around the table, dulling the shine of even the merriest eye.

Meanwhile, Bilbo blinks. Then blinks again. Finally, using his eyes for more than blinking stupidly, Bilbo looks around the table at all thirteen of the dwarves. Every one of them is...to be blunt, they look terrified. But in their eyes there’s this light, this determination.

No one had stopped for them, no supply carts had dropped off goods, not without a promise of a return, even when what they were set out to do…

“Erebor, it...it was your home?” The hobbit fidgets , eyes shifting back and forth between the two dwarves who had given input thus far.

It’s the first one that spoke to him, with the great white beard who he’s learned is Balin, that speaks next. “Aye. Twas our home, where we meant to raise our children and where many of us were raised. Twas a beautiful home, and a loving one, and we march to take it back.”

What they were set out to do was suicide.

A great winged fire beast and thirteen dwarves pitted against each other sounded…

They’d be cinders.

No one had stopped to tell them ‘good luck!’ or give any aid, both because they were outsiders and..Bilbo could imagine they didn’t want to get attached or give their aid to dead men walking.

The awkward silence breaks with the first chords of a lone voice, Thorin, crooning the beginning of a song. Soon all had joined in, and Bilbo stared wide eyed at them, stumbling back into his chair. It was a beautiful strong, in Westron surprisingly, and the thunder of such deep and devoted voices near bowled Bilbo over. He could hear it. He could hear what their home meant to them in their voices. In the longing and heartbreak when they sung of their quest, of their loss. He felt something stir inside of him that had, like the halls of Erebor, long lay dormant.

His hand grasps the edge of the great oaken slab meant to serve as a table; he drew in a deep breath. It was a familiar feeling. It started in hairy toes, creeping up fragile ankles and soaring until it was a solid form in his chest. Longing, he absently labeled it. It was the feeling he felt when he was but a fauntling at the table of Bag End. He grits his teeth as he remembers his mother’s smile. How odd it looked when she was in an apron and baking, when her hands were rough and calloused. She brandished a knife like a knight did a sword. He remembers her stories, how his chest tightened in longing for something like that, some cause to crusade for and a place his heart would take him.

In one of her stories, she followed an army to battle.

What had always stuck with him about this particular tale was how she spoke of the soldiers. “War,” She would start, and how odd it was to say such a thing while holding a rolling pin, “Is not a collection of fighters clashing swords. It is a brotherhood of people pitting their hearts against each other.” She had hummed, rolling the dough into even slabs, “You go to war armed with a sword, but your greatest weapon is love. Love makes a sword swing true.”

Bilbo, treating the story as an epic and exciting tale as children often do, gazed upon these dwarves and finally understood.

He had an inkling of what he must do, of what his heart was telling him.

“When do you leave?” He asks, eyes flitting around.

“When it is time to go,” Balin says very unhelpfully.

Thorin clears his throat, “When we can do no more to prepare. Currently we are focusing on honing our skills and preparing our bodies for the harsh journey.” Bilbo gulps and nods. Right. Harsh, dangerous, unrespectable journey.

Conversation lulls on for a little while longer, and night is upon them entirely too soon. Bilbo soon feels like an intruder, and after all he has some preparations of his own to make. If they’d even allow him along, that was, and if not...he’d be crushed, but he’d understand. After all, he was but a ‘wee halfling’ if Bombur had anything to say about it. At the very least he’d dry as much meat as he could and see what else he could do.

“Right, well I best be along,” Bilbo said, and the table in front of him hushed unexpectedly.

They all look up to him with mixed expressions, making gestures and faces at each other in turn. Bilbo waits for someone to say something, and it takes a moment. Thorin clears his throat, “It has been a pleasure to meet you Mister Baggins.” He tucks his arms behind his back and almost seems to hunch in on himself, “We thank you for your aid.”

Bilbo blinks up at him and clears his own throat in return, “Of course.” He fidgets for a moment or so, “Thirteen.” He looks up at Thorin, then flicks his eyes to the others. “It’s an unlucky number.” He hops down from the bench and dusts himself off.

Thorin’s eyes are searching, sizing Bilbo up. “Indeed.”

It was said that to save a life is to become responsible for it. No where did it say that to aid a life was to be utterly taken with it, and yet Bilbo was seeing such an effect right before his eyes. These dwarves, all so ready to march off into the equal of a cold abyss for naught more than a sliver of hope at reclaiming their home…

With a few more goodbyes, Bilbo is on his way to his smial, with the weight of a decision on his shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for a good while, and I'm so happy it's out here now. Let me know what you think! <3


End file.
